Son of a Poet
With a pen to write;
with fingers to type;
I write anew;
This a new spring for me summer is gone;
autumn near winter flees.
It's in my blood; the ink the feather.
wandering soul; so long;
Irish bones african heartbeat.
Because of the english we make sound sweet.
It is who i am; where i go it gives me
voice; when i myself hide in shadows.
I can sing to that special one; romantic i am by nature.
I hold with both hands her features.
"Let down your walls great city." they shout. Why should I; for they only
pillage me.
Why battle with this blank page?
It is my blood; a fight i win.
how can you know? Do you take the time to
talk, to see , to understand?
Every step, evry stroke of the pen; again and again.
Every story and rhyme, now and
in future time.
Cry a river, spell a dream, sing a song
never seen.
For a penny, for a dime?
No!
I am the son of a poet.
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